


Vermilion

by DamadiSangue



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blood, F/M, Future Fic, Past Relationship(s), Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2018-09-08 00:19:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8822113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DamadiSangue/pseuds/DamadiSangue
Summary: "It's our oldest deadliest impulse. 
  
  The need to protect our own at the expense of any other living thing.
  
  And we give that impulse such a nice name, don't we? Love.
  
  And love is a psychopath."
  
  - Sophia Hyde -





	1. Tag, you are in.

It is the nightfall when _he_ comes.  
Heavy, _martial_ steps.  
Eyes that bleed, _burn_.  
Excella settles the shoulders of the dress, she studied her reflection in the containment glass.  
"It is all ready." she says, and turns red her mouth "Tomorrow we will be making the latest changes and then the plane will take off."  
She is lifting the hem of her skirt, showing the foot of a little girl who had always dreamed of Prince Charming.  
The monster smiles and he has only the beauty and the poise of a knight.  
"Good."  
Excella looks up, moves her chin in his direction.  
"And then?" she asks "And then what will happen, Albert?"  
Wesker holds out his hand, widens the smile.  
"And then it will be a new world, Excella, a world of which you will be queen. With _me._ "  
Excella will cling to that promise until the last moment.


	2. Heavy snow

Jake swallows fear, arms the gun.  
_Shoot straight, check the recoil_ his superior had told him, a jerk who was probably worth less than his own mercenaries _Edonia needs men like you._  
Men, not boys.  
Men with balls, with coarse laugh and easy punch.  
Jake swallows, moves his palms on his pants.  
"Ready?" Adrian asks, a half smile on his face and an armed M16 "Let's split the ass to some soldiers."  
Jake nods, listens to the snow.  
"One..."  
His mother liked the snow; she said it reminded her of his father.  
"Two..."  
She said that Jake had his eyes, his cheekbones.  
"Three!"  
Jake comes out from the corner, _shoots._  
The snow is the only thing that absorbs his regrets.


	3. Ghosts

They called Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.  
They gave him the drugs, two blue and two yellow pills - one in the morning and one in the evening.  
They told him that it could also be the Survivor Syndrome and, why not, even that Phantom Limb syndrome or Stockholm syndrome.  
Chris sighs, turns over his glass of gin in his fingers.  
"I chased for a lifetime."  
The darkness moves, rolls up in his chair in the corner.  
"I looked for you: I hunted you, _killed you_."  
Laughter, barely recognizable; too old to be his, too cruel to be another else.  
"And now..." Chris tilt his head forward, runs a hand through his hair - he is tired, and the road was so long, so _hard_ "... and now you're just another _fucking_ ghost."  
The darkness takes shape ( _his_ ) and listens to him, as _always_.  
Including ghosts, after all, the whispers are all that remains.


	4. Gasping for life

The white shirt slips on the carpet without making any noise, a gentle hiss as his hands down her back.  
Albert grazes the tip of her neck with his fingers, inviting her to look at him.  
Alex sighs in his arms and arching back, soothing the signs of another woman and another life.  
She offers him her small and pale breasts, a body trained by the pain - _molded_ by the virus.  
She offers him a brash and immoral desire, thin thighs and yet strong enough to hold him against her hips.  
She offers him a skin that has his own smell, a shared shame and slow gestures, of who has all the time in the world.  
"That's how you do with Excella?" she asks every time - and every time she receives the same answer.  
" _No_."  
Alex smiles on his mouth and  _laughs._


	5. Cupid carries a gun

Excella is _young_ ; a heavy mask of makeup and ambition.  
Excella is _beautiful_ ; the grace and elegance of wealth.  
Excella is _in love_ ; a blessing and a condemnation.  
"I found you."  
Italian accent, soft cadence.  
Albert smiles ( _liar_ ) touches her shoulder ( _illusion_ )  
Alex is at his side ( _not_ three steps back, like. Jill.  _Not_ three steps forward, like Excella.) a statue of snow and blood.  
"The investors are _really_ excited."  
Pearls and diamonds; a blue dress like her eyes - like the sky under which she will die.  
"The idea of being the first to be able to treat Ebola definitively has made them mad."  
Albert puts his hand on her back, encourages her to continue.  
"They are so _tenaciously_ attached to their money than they would do _anything_ for a piece of glory."  
Alex moves forward, discovers her long legs with every step.  
"I have already contacted Irving."  
Albert stares out of the corner, Alex returns his gaze.  
"Within a few months we will leave for Africa and reopen the laboratories."  
Alex touches his wrist, a silent farewell.  
Albert _resists_ the temptation to hold her, Excella keep talking about business accounts and charitable donations as a cover.  
"... And so our image will come out clean: the BSAA was more useful than I expected."  
Excella stops in the middle of the hallway, listening to the sudden emptiness around her.  
"Albert?"  
Wesker turns, Excella note the disappearance of the woman in white dress.  
"Colleague?" she asks, and jealousy is a rotten rostrum in her chest.  
"In a sense." the answer.  
For a few seconds the instinct in Excella mind _cries_ , suggests they run away - to get away from this man without morals and without a past.  
Albert sniffs her indecision (her suspicion) and approaches her.  
He stretches his fingers to her face (aristocratic cheekbones, golden powder to highlight them) looks for her mouth (full lips, so  _different_ )  
Excella abandons herself to the monster, he puts to rest any conscience.  
Her scent is so strong (so _wrong_ \- so _human_ ) to be almost sickening.


	6. Kill the dead

Blood on your hands, between your teeth.  
Dead eyes, cold hands - a walking corpse; a _burning_ corpse.  
"It's time to finish this."  
Jill _cries_ , lets her heart explode; for him, for her, for _them._  
"No!"  
The time rewinds, an old tape that drips red _and_ white - _Umbrella._

_Tyrant. Human. Traitor. **Captain.**_

Silence.

Chris _screams_ , calls her ( _his_ ) name, prays a god in which he never believed.  
The monster smiles and greets the broken princess in his cruel arms.


	7. Colder than this home

Natalia stares to her gift, slips along the pink silk envelope with her index finger.  
"Open it." urges Barry "It's from Chris."  
She swallows, blinks once, twice, three times.  
The silver tape curls around her fingers, seems to want to capture her.

 

_Uroboros._

 

Oh, ~~Natalia~~  Alex remembers well.  
She remembers the feeling that Uroboros gave her on the hand, along the wrist.  
Remember how the parasite reacted to her uncertainty, how it rocking lazy on her fingers.  
Then remember _how_ it devoured all backgrounds and every sun, a beast with which Excella was _absolutely charming;_ an obscene plaything and that was just the death wish of a _desperate_ and _fallen_ god.

 

_Albert._

 

~~Natalia~~  Alex smiles at Chris, the monster sleeping in her _scratch_ \- wants to _go out_ , want to _live._  
"Do you like it?"

 

_You will die, Chris Redfield._

  
"Very much."  
Chris's eyes light up, his lips touching her forehead.  
"Happy Birthday, Natalia."  
Certain stories have endings that are just the beginning.


	8. Born to die

There had been a night when he had tried to put an end to this _absurd_ string.  
He had watched her curl up against his side, breathing his name.  
He had observed her stretches out her little fingers on his chest, then contracting them close to his heart.  
He raised slightly, reflecting her gestures. (One hand on the left breast, the other hidden by the sheet. Silk and warm skin.)  
He then _pressed_ , sensing the ribs _flex._  
The beat of her heart had become faster, _stronger._  
The index and ring fingers had sunk slightly, opening flowers of flesh and blood.  
Alex opened her eyes, looking for his.  
Albert had ignored her (her _fragile_ body, the _weak_ grip of her fingers around his wrist) sinking further.  
Alex _tightens_ , breaks the tender flesh of his wrist with her nails.  
Albert continues, tearing tissues **_and_** muscles, organs **_and_** bones.  
Below them the bed is wet with blood and _more_ , a pool that is shared by both.  
She doesn't ask him _why_ , doesn't beg.  
She stares at him with those ~~hideous~~ eyes too blue and too full, surrounding him with her thighs.  
Albert grabs her heart, feels the pulse under his fingers (a slimy hand that slips under his fingertips, who want to _live_.)  
Alex clenches his wrist with the other hand, bend her lips into a thin, pale line.  
"Do it." she says, and pulls him to her chest - _through_ "Go on."  
Albert bares his teeth, _squeezes._

For a moment, everything stops.  
For a moment Alex is dying and Albert is her killer.  
For a while.

Albert relaxes his grip, _growls_ something in her hair.  
Alex inhale, exhale; runs through his neck with her fingertips.  
She spreads her thighs wider, welcomes him in one thrust.

_An indecent and desperate embrace._

In between, a heavy heart held from both. 


	9. Creeping in my soul

Africa is hot on her skin, too blue and too bright.  
Jill leans forward, spreads her arms.

_Fly. **Escape.**_

She already died once -  she is no longer afraid.  
The mask falls, Jill has a new face - no color, no taste.

_A dead doll for a dead world._

Something grabs her arm - someone _squeezes_ her throat so hard to get her _wet_ between her thighs and lips.  
" _Valentine_."  
She smiles blood and broken glass, Jill.  
She smiles for _all_ the lies they always told to each other, for all that is left of her - _them_.  
" _Captain_."  
She smiles and sinks on his mouth.


	10. Straight to Hell

_"I will wait for you."_

Excella _laughs._

_"I will wait for you."_

Excella tossed back her head and laughs - listens the virus devours her entrails, her heart. 

She had muttered this on his mouth - _demanding_ \- between his legs.

_"I will wait for you."_

She had promised this despite she had perceived on his tongue the taste of _another_ woman - even when he came smelling of ice and snow ( **her;** always her.)

_"I will wait for you."_

Excella throws a last look at the sky and finds it empty of answers.


	11. Let me out

Encircled her head with gold, covered her hands with red, what else is left?  
Alex clings to the rocks, hears her skin _crack._  
She throws up a blackish lump and swallows fear and loneliness.  
"No...." she pleads "Not this..."  
The virus _laughs,_   _carves_ her meat and _opens_ \- an obscene and sick embrace.  
Alex opens her eyes, falls to her knees.

Snap.

Alexandra screams, sinking her teeth into her lips until she can feel the blood down her chin.  
She closes her eyes, trying to regulate her breath - she fails miserably.  
_My legs,_ is all she thinks, _my legs; I don't feel them anymore._  
She didn't dare to look at herself, and she trembles when a red shoe enters in her peripheral vision.  
The structure collapses, Alex cries.  
Among the rubble of her own life the monster cries for all the missed opportunities.

 


	12. Spiel mit mir

Alex feels _someone_ behind her - in _her_ bed - the blankets slip from her body; she slides with her fingers on the dagger that she hides under the pillow and _turns_ \-  she _presses_ , pausing on the drops of blood that impregnates the knife's tip.

_Albert._

"I taught you well." he says, and in the darkness of the room she can only see his profile - listen to his breath.  
Alex is silent, she waits - the blade still against his throat.  
Albert clutches her wrist between his fingers, bends over to her face - he touches her mouth with each word.  
"Alexandra." he calls her - he _invokes_ her.  
A lightning strikes and breaks the silence, outlines the curve of her hips under her shirt, her breasts - the generous fold of her groin.   
Alex hardens her eyes, dilated and wound pupils.   
"I'm **not** your whore."  
"I know."  
"I'm **not** a piece of meat for sale."

_I'm **not** what Spencer wants me to be._

"I know."  
She looks for his eyes, studies them.  
"I'm **not** your sister."

_Not tonight._

Albert nods against her skin and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Spiel mit mir" is a little piece from my Medieval!AU on Resident Evil.


	13. Bang bang

Alex has small feet; delicate, elegant ankles.  
He could break them with a dry shot of his wrist; _press_ , and feel the bones _break_ , the tendons _tangle_ \- the muscles flatten and _shrink._  
He strokes her side with the tip of his fingers, her breast  - the little and pink nipple.  
Alex murmurs _something_ , she wraps up close to his body - around her neck the purple imprints of his hand.  
He _cherishes_ the flat line of her abdomen, the small concave of her navel - he goes down, and finds her still wet of _both._  
His gun is not very far; more or less at the same height as Alex's purse.  
Wesker stretches over her shoulder, raises it from the ground - arms it, watches the drum rotate, align with the gun barrel.  
Alex's breathing just changes - a vibration that he only senses because it reverberates in his chest, between his ribs.  
She doesn't open her eyes, doesn't change her position: she perceives the cold metal under her chin, the smell of the gun lubricant.

"You will _not_ do it."

Wesker places the index on the trigger, his thumb relaxed on the butt of the gun - his left hand still between her thighs.  
"If you want to scratch my brain out of an authentic Caravaggio, go ahead."  
Wesker hesitates, and _then_ Alex reverses their positions - throws away the revolver with the back of her hand, _overwhelms_ him.  
She opens her fingers on his chest, tilts her face toward him - she _smiles_ when she senses his erection between her buttocks, _hard._  
"Oh." she teases, lowering herself -  _welcoming_ him.  
"Oh." he repeats, bending her on her knees.  
The first thrust threatens to kill her every time.


	14. Human

"A photo."  
Chris leans over her shoulder, frowns.  
"She's younger."  
Claire studies William's face - clear, calm - a thumb raised toward the camera, a wrinkled lab coat.   
"Twenty seven years, maybe."  
Annette bends under the weight of her husband's arm, _smiles_ \- a hand entwined with Birkin's.  
Claire turns the photo, reads the date written on the back.  
"September, 1990."  
Chris nods, joins her around the table.  
"Thirty years."  
Naked eyes, bare; wolf's eyes - the same that Redfield remembers examine him and _break_ him down to the selection interview for the S.T.A.R.S.  
"They look ... _human_."  
Alex is an elegant profile, _alive_ \- a shoulder against Wesker's, fingers barely touching him.   
"They were." Claire corrects him.  
A blue shirt, faded jeans; Albert Wesker _allows_ that contact, he _seeks_ it - his lips folded in the shadow of a smile.  
Chris walks away, sighs.  
"It means nothing."  
Claire is silent, lost in the reflection of four lives that have changed her _forever._  
"Maybe." she replies, and folds the picture in her jacket pocket "Or maybe it's the _only_ thing that matters."  
Chris watches Claire pass over him silently.


	15. Uroboros

A handful of rags and bones; this is Alex, now.  
Her knees bent upward, hands clasped to her chest, everything in Alex speaks of a betrayed trust, a fear that is devouring her alive  
She breathes slowly, her eyes restless under her eyelids, her hair spread over the worn pillow.  
Albert still watches her for a few moments, _suffocates_ a feeling that makes him weak, _exposed._  
He was used to seeing her in red and expensive clothes.  
He was used to meeting her under very dark, tight skirts, white shirts that were reduced to _nothing_ \- shreds of fabric that concealed an elaborate fantasy of lace _and_ silk.  
He was accustomed to her sharp tongue, her winking smile; moist and shameless thighs - games of power that were fought in laboratories as between sheets.

_Wherever theirbdesire call._

This ... _thing_ in front of him is not the woman he remembered: that he _wants_ to remember.

_The sum of all his errors: of all his arrogance._

The Progenitor whispers, murmurs, _warns_.

_It is your fault. Only yours._

The Progenitor _knows_ ; the Progenitor _understands._

_Not him._

Albert Wesker shows himself once again for what he has always been; a god too failed and fallacious to be anything but **human.**


	16. (Not) a human being

**(Not) a human being**

 

A beast of steel and metal; the great dragon that opens its mouth and _burns._  
London welcomes the new century dressed in smoke and progress, Paris instead slides lazy along the Seine's bank, old glories and new hopes.  
Alex walks barefoot among the bohemians in the gypsy quarter - she  _laughs_ of their blood.  
"You're too rigid." she says, leaning towards an almost unconscious boy "You should let yourself go."  
He stares at her, wrinkling his nose - she doesn't like the boy, he can feel it; he smells _bad_. Ill, and cheap alcohol - she rises, shaking off the dust from her skirt.  
She puts his gaze on Wesker, tilts her head to the right - a curious, careful movement.  
She studies him passing his tongue over his teeth, a reddish smear along his chin, on his lips.  
"Do you like... _that thing_?"  
Wesker lets go of the woman's body, breaks her neck - _crack_ , poor, silly whore.  
"Choose." he barks to her, pulling a handkerchief from his coat pocket.  
Alex puts her forefinger in front of his face, beats a foot on the ground - bends her mouth in a grimace.  
"I don't like _anyone_."  
"You are a _particularly_ irritating progeny.  
"And you are a  _boring_ creator."  
Wesker thins his pupil, releases a guttural, frustrated sound.  
" _Alexandra_."  
" _Albert."_  
The disease sings and laughs among their cells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From "Paint it black", a vampire AU in Resident Evil fandom.


End file.
